Moon In The Mirror: A Tess Noncoire Adventure

by P. R. Frost

  Good thing Donovan didn’t have that voice.

  “I’ll get her crutches out of the car. But she’s not supposed to be up and about, only trips to the bathroom.” He looked sternly at MoonFeather.

  We both knew she wouldn’t obey those instructions unless we tied her down. I wouldn’t have either.

  I left them speaking softly, lovingly, to make some herb tea, a restorative concoction of MoonFeather’s rather than the pathetic stuff sold in stores and served in restaurants. I didn’t know what all my aunt put into this brew, but I smelled mint and mullein and chicory root. Maybe it had some magic in it as well. I never knew with MoonFeather. The infusion made a dark and thick liquid. Coffee addict though I am, I was almost tempted to try some.

  The teakettle had just boiled when Allie drove up with WindScribe in tow. The girl looked as pale and insubstantial as dappled autumnal sunshine deep in the woods. She wore a set of my sweats and one of Allie’s civilian parkas that hung to her knees. She looked about her with wide and bewildered eyes.

  Clear eyes. No drugs glazing them today. With luck, she wouldn’t find any more. I’d made sure Mom’s migraine meds were in the cottage. Nothing stronger than aspirin left in my house.

  I opened the door and ushered them into the warmth of my kitchen. Mike remained outside, wandering the fringes of the parking area, examining the lumps under the snow that might be real garden gnomes. Then again, they might not.

  I wondered what he’d do if one of them kicked back when he got a little too enthusiastic about removing snow with his boot.

  WindScribe got the first cup of tea. She looked like she needed it more than my aunt. Allie settled in with a cup of coffee, strong and black.

  “You going to be okay here alone?” Allie asked as she downed the last drop of scalding liquid. “We’ve got to get back on patrol. The snow is melting and the traffic is getting thick and dangerous.”

  “We’ll muddle through. Mom and Darren should be back any time. You want to come to dinner? Gollum’s in Boston, but I’m fixing cod sautéed in wine and lemon for the rest of us.”

  “Love to, but I’m going to Gollum’s lecture in Boston.” With a wicked smile she ducked out.

  Why did I feel so empty inside?

  Before I could figure that one out, WindScribe raised her head from her mug of tea and fixed me with a clear and determined gaze. “I’m going up to my room. I need some privacy for a change.”

  Probably to find a way to do more drugs.

  So much for wispy and vague helplessness.

  Chapter 19

  THE HOUSE GROWS quiet. MoonFeather naps under the influence of pain meds. WindScribe shuts me out of her room. My Tess settles before her computer, staring at a blank screen or playing solitaire. Frustration and depression grow in her as she accomplishes nothing. Her emotions are my emotions. I have to do something or sink ever lower into darkness and drag her with me.

  I could help her finish those last four chapters, or write the two short stories commissioned for anthologies. But she won’t talk to me while anyone who doesn’t know about me is in the house. Secrecy is more than an oath to the Sisterhood. Secrecy is our protection from superstitious mundanes who will look upon us as minions of the devil rather than their saviors from the depredations of demons.

  MoonFeather would understand.

  WindScribe is a puzzle. She still smells of tranquilizers and Tess’ clothing rather than herself. I can’t sniff out her motivations.

  Of course, if that damned cat weren’t around, I could smell more of everything. I alone know just how much evil oozes out of the cat’s graceful fur and wide eyes. Everyone else thinks he’s pretty. Or cute. Or that his purring will help MoonFeather heal.

  Bah! It’s all an act to cover up his plot to take over the world.

  Or at least this house.

  Meanwhile Tess pounds her rolltop desk and stares at the fire. We really need a vacation.

  An aura of menace hovers around us like a miasma of sewage. I dare not leave long enough to do some research. Fifteen garden gnomes litter the yard, ready to attack the moment we let our guard down.

  The j’appel dragons are in charge of the chat room today. I could easily slip by them. But where would I go? How do I call the Windago away to another, easier prey? Or track the puzzle that is Donovan?

  I think I’ll search his luggage. Darren’s, too. Who knows what demons pack for a week in the country.

  The cat will do as fine a job of searching as I could. Now all I have to do is herd him over to the cottage.

  “Tess!” Donovan called as he burst into the house unannounced.

  I’d been so absorbed in a Mahjong game on the computer I hadn’t heard his car.

  “Tess, my love, where are you?”

  “In the office. And I’m not your love.” I yelled back at him. From here I could keep an eye on MoonFeather and monitor both staircases for signs of WindScribe emerging from her “privacy.” Both sets of steps had unavoidable and distinctive creaks and groans. Not to mention the crossbeams waiting to conk the unwary.

  I had a lot of hard questions only she could answer. Best she be in a good and gracious mood and totally clear of drugs when I tackled her with them.

  “Oh, Tess, wonderful news.” Donovan grabbed me out of my chair and twirled me around the cluttered room.

  Dizzy and laughing, we kissed. And stilled. And kissed some more. The simmering passion between us exploded. His mobile mouth softened against mine.

  I was lost in his magic.

  I melted against him, too overwhelmed to care about my reservations and lack of trust. My arms crept around his waist, pulling him tighter against me. Eagerly, I ran my hands up the lean muscles of his back, reveling in his fitness and strength.

  His fingers tangled in my hair.

  Our tongues met, twined, explored.

  “Let’s celebrate and go fencing,” Donovan breathed when we finally came up for air.

  “What are we celebrating?” I rested my forehead against his chest, not trusting myself to look into the warmth of his eyes.

  “I just cut a deal that’s going to save my computer gaming company and get me back on solid financial footing once and for all.” He rained kisses on my cheeks, my chin, the corners of my eyes.

  “That’s good. What kind of deal?” I could manage mundane details. Thought beyond that was more than my passion-fevered brain could handle. Born of our natural chemistry or his magic? I couldn’t tell and, at the moment, didn’t care.

  “The largest maker of arcade games in the country just bought the rights to ten of my computer games. I’ve already got arcade versions programmed. All I have to do is deliver the sets of CDs and collect a whopping big check and continued royalties.” He kissed me again.

  “And you want to celebrate by engaging in fencing?” I laughed beneath his mouth.

  He swung me around again. “We could go back to the cottage and lock the door . . .”

  “I shouldn’t leave. My aunt . . .”

  “Where is everyone?” He lifted his head finally, looking as if he sniffed the air. Maybe he just listened to the quiet. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire and the rasp of our breathing.

  I told him the distribution of bodies.

  “D called me about a half hour ago. He and Genevieve are headed back from Boston now. They’ll be here in another hour or so. Surely you can leave two adult women alone for that long.”

  “It’s nearly rush hour. Darren and Mom will be at least three hours . . .”

  “We’ve got cell phones. MoonFeather or WindScribe can call us. The salle d’armes is only ten minutes away.”

  “I need some exercise. Let’s do it. But I’m calling Dad to come sit with MoonFeather until Josh gets off work. They can eat the damned fish.” Decision made, I felt lighter, freer. And much happier.

  I didn’t care that Donovan hung out with demons, had worked to make a homeland for the half-bloods, and wouldn’t tell me a damn th
ing about himself. All I cared about was the fact that he made my blood sing and we were going fencing.

  Still laughing, I dashed up the old stairs to my room, careful to duck beneath the crossbeam. I reached out and patted the dragon skull on the way. The murmur of a soft voice stopped me short three steps down. The top of my head barely cleared the landing.

  WindScribe sat on my bed cuddling Gandalf the cat. “You understand the need to be free, my friend,” she said. “Freedom belongs to all creatures, even you. That horrible man Gollum should never have locked you up in the teeny tiny apartment, should he?”

  The cat yawned and purred as he plucked at something shiny on the bedspread with his fluffy white paw.

  WindScribe shuffled several other objects around, her fingers never idle. Her bare toes also fidgeted and clenched to a rhythm only she could hear.

  I crept up one more step to see better. The witch had scattered the contents of my purse over the candlewick bedspread and examined every coin, every dirty tissue, and credit card with intense scrutiny. She wore my favorite mint-green wool slacks and sweater set, too.

  “I’ve made it my mission in life to free all the captive creatures. What is so wrong with that?” she said in her wispy voice.

  “What’s wrong with that is that dogs and cats aren’t street smart and get hit by cars. They don’t know how to feed themselves, so they raid garbage cans and eat things that make them sick and kill them,” I said. “What are you doing with my purse?” I climbed the last two steps and yanked my wallet and car keys out of her hands.

  Anxiously, I checked to make sure all my credit cards were in place. Car and house keys: check. Key to the armory still secreted in its zippered pocket. Cash intact. Coins? Who knew. I rarely counted it except when I needed it. Was there a check missing from the book? Maybe. I might have written one and forgotten to record it.

  “The lipstick you wore yesterday was so pretty, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I tried it.” WindScribe opened her eyes wide in innocence.

  “Ask next time. Now get out of my room. I’d like some privacy while I change.” I glared at her. My exuberant mood vanished, replaced by a simmering boil.

  “There’s no need to be so uptight. I didn’t mean any harm.” She slunk back to the connecting door to her attic room, gathering the cat against her chest, almost as a talisman.

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” I grabbed the corner of the missing check that stuck out of her pocket.

  “I’ve been to hell. And I won’t go back,” she announced firmly as she slammed and locked the door.

  Interesting. Very interesting.

  Darren is a worse slob than Tess. Clothes strewn about. Used tissues on the floor nowhere near the trash basket. Snack crumbs scattered about and crushed. He even missed when he used the toilet. And he left the seat up. Mom is going to love this. She lives to be a martyr to other people’s messes.

  Donovan, on the other hand, is so neat it looks as if he hasn’t been in his room at all. His duffel bag is still packed, and I can’t open it. His laptop is still in its case. I can’t even smell him on the bar of soap in the bathroom. The only shaving tackle around the sink belongs to Darren.

  If Donovan did not have a scent that I cannot identify, I would believe he doesn’t exist. He leaves no taint in the air where he has been. Only where he is. Or does the reek of demon in Darren merely overwhelm the faint traces Donovan leaves behind?

  I have heard nothing of his kind in all of imp lore. Imps have to know about many demons cataloged in the ghetto census. How else can we fight them when we become our true selves in the form of the Celestial Blade?

  I light a cigar and blow smoke all over Darren’s dirty laundry. Mom hates tobacco smoke. If she thinks Darren has a habit, maybe she’ll call off the wedding.

  Oops! Got to scram. Donovan comes. His aura fairly pushes me out the back window as he enters the front door. I flit around to the front and peer through the windows.

  And wouldn’t you know it, just when I’ve finished searching, the blasted cat shows up.

  Donovan pushes open the door, and the cat dashes into the cottage, purring and drooling.

  See! I told you that cat was evil. If Donovan and the cat cozy up, it proves they were both spawned in some dark recess of one of the hells.

  Wait. What is this? The cat strops Donovan’s legs, leaving long white hairs on his black pants.

  Donovan curses in that curious language of his, full of pops and clicks and hisses. Definitely a demon tongue. “Why couldn’t you wait until I had my white fencing knickers on?” Then he kicks the cat. It flies out the still open door and lands on its feet. Then it struts over to me with that smug look on its face.

  I retreat to my babe’s gym bag, giggling all the way.

  Maybe the cat isn’t too bad. Sometimes. I’ll have to cure it of its attitude problem, though.

  Achoo! But not now. I can’t breathe.

  Chapter 20

  "BLADES DOWN!” I screamed as the tempered steel foil shattered in Donovan’s hand. My arm grew numb from fingertip to shoulder from the force of his blow. Then I began to shake and ache.

  A spot of red appeared on the right arm of my fencing jacket, just below the elbow and the extra padding of the underarm protector. Donovan’s foil had shattered, and he’d continued the attack with ragged steel. My parry had diverted his touch to my forearm, away from a potentially dangerous wound to my breast, even with a plastic chest protector.

  I stood staring in shock at the jagged end of his considerably shortened foil. It had torn through my jacket and left a bleeding gash. Eventually, I gulped and dropped my own blade on the floor. Basic safety precaution.

  After nearly an hour of warming up with other fencers, and winning those bouts, we met on a strip with no one else to fight. I simmered with adrenaline and sexual tension.

  We’d been sparring back and forth for close to the fifteen-minute limit with a score of three to three. We’d each received two points from red cards—penalties for fighting corps á corps, body to body. If you are close enough to kiss, you are too close to fence.

  Then I parried his next attack on my sixte, the high outside line, and cut over for a solid riposte. A move he hadn’t expected. His surprise and frustration at being unable to score on me must have made him lose his temper.

  His counter parry was hard. Far too wide a movement with far too much force behind the blow for ordinary sport fencing with foils. Sabers maybe. But not these slender fourteen-ounce blades.

  His riposte had been too fast to register the broken blade before it struck and drew blood. The fact that he’d hit off target on the arm showed how much his temper had robbed him of point control.

  The clatter of wary fencers dropping their blades on the floor sounded loud in the sudden hush. Only after safely downing all weapons did they look around to find the cause of my alarm.

  Just because sport fencing weapons have been foiled, or blunted, does not mean they are entirely safe. The whole reason for the padded jackets, masks, gloves, and rubber tips on the blades is safety. We wouldn’t use them if we didn’t need them.

  Coach Peterson stomped over, shaking his head and muttering something about untamed Indians with more money than sense and not enough discipline.